


At Camlann

by RobberBaroness



Series: Darkest Timeline [14]
Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Battle, F/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22340941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobberBaroness/pseuds/RobberBaroness
Summary: Where it has always all been leading.
Relationships: Guinevere/Arthur Pendragon, Guinevere/Lancelot du Lac, Guinevere/Mordred (Arthurian)
Series: Darkest Timeline [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598476
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	At Camlann

The advantage of numbers was on Mordred’s side at the Battle of Camlann- Arthur’s forces had already taken losses at Joyous Gard that they hadn’t had time yet to make up. However, the men of Camelot were no ordinary soldiers; they were Knights of the Round Table, and any one of them was worth at least five robber knights. This was lucky, for they were each facing roughly three apiece as their king directed them to take back the land. And no matter how brave or well trained they were, some of Arthur’s army fell, and with each death, the disparity between numbers grew.

But while Bedivere might be gone, his catapults remained, and fire from them was enough to fracture Mordred’s troops. There were gaping holes left in their formation, and the men were undisciplined enough already. Just when they were starting to gather back together, Arthur directed his own men forward in a lance charge.

“What did you expect but a lance charge?” Mordred screamed, though none could hear him over the din of battle. “You’re fighting knights!”

Arthur’s troops fought with their back to the forest, and this gave them another advantage. Mordred’s forces who had ventured in there had not come back, and rumors had grown of Lancelot and Tristram as ghosts, devils, even avenging angels. They’d once been considered the two best sword fighters in Camelot. Now all their wrath was turned towards Mordred and his men, and when any sign of those men was found in the forest afterwards, it was in the form of horrifically butchered corpses. The living knights were afraid to enter the forest, no matter how much Mordred proclaimed that a full company could easily dismantle two madmen.

True to his word, King Arthur was fighting in the vanguard. Kay would rush out ahead on his horse to draw out any glory-seekers, then Arthur would come in from the side and crush them, and the only glory they found was being in the numbers of men Excalibur had slain. Arthur himself was a bloody whirlwind, slaughtering his way through all comers. Some he recognized (the Red Knight of the Red Lands was unforgettable, after the fit Lynette had thrown when Gareth had pardoned him for his attempt on Lyonors’ virtue) and some he did not. It did not matter. If they fought under Mordred’s banner, they died under Mordred’s banner. Within his lifetime, Arthur had seen the change in armor from chain mail to plate mail, but it was all the same to Excalibur.

After the disaster with Merlin’s spell book, Mordred had sworn never to use magic again, but as the battle grew deadlier he broke that promise. He kept to spells he knew well, spells that were reliable, and bolts of magic flew here and there wherever Mordred rode. But while they worked at driving away nearby enemies, they were hardly any more effective than arrows would have been, even if they were more impressive to look at.

It was only a matter of time, Mordred thought, before his troops would break and flee.

“We still have more forces than Arthur’s!” he screamed. “Press forward for a final charge!”

And while nobody was looking, Mordred slipped away on foot.

The truth was that he had always preferred to lead from behind, even as a child. Agravain had been a good brother to have in this regard, as he was crushing in personal combat and highly suggestible. Let Agravain think he is taking the lead, Mordred had learned, and he’ll do anything he’s told. Provoke him to bravado and he’d say the most outrageous things to Gawain, just so that Mordred could see how far his eldest brother could be pushed before the situation turned violent. Give him the right look of impatience, and he’d kill the fellow knight mocking them both. Drop a few hints about Lancelot and Guinevere meeting in secret and he’d spring a trap to catch them together, thinking it was his own idea all the while.

That last one hadn’t worked out quite the way either of them had hoped, but how were they to know that shining paragon of knighthood Lancelot du Lac was the same kind of man they were? If Mordred had known what they were to find, they could have come out of the situation with Lancelot dead and themselves as heroes.

Mordred missed Agravain, and it wasn’t only because he’d been easy to hide behind. All his brothers were gone now, even his dearly loved and dearly hated Gawain, and even as king it felt that there was no one and nothing who loved him.

Let them hate him, then. He was going to find his father and kill him, he was going to find a way to force his aunt to open her doors to him, he was going to have Guinevere whether she could ever learn to love him or not. 

Mordred pulled off his helmet to wipe the sweat from his brow, and that was when he saw the forest ghosts who had so frightened his men.

“Mordred? Can that be you?” Lancelot peered at the discolored visage before him. “In the name of Jesus…

“Rank proof of his villainy!” Tristram shouted.

“If that were true,” Mordred snarled, “the two of you would wear such a face yourselves. No, I’ll never be beloved by my country now, but I can still destroy its enemies, and that is what you two are.”

“I’ll wear the title of your enemy proudly, child of shame. As long as you live, Guinevere will never be safe.”

Mordred laughed hysterically.

“Are you trying to claim the moral high ground? Now of all times? Do you think I don’t remember holding Guinevere as she sobbed into my arms after you’d ravished her? Do you think I believe that if you find her, she’ll be safe and untouched? No. I know what sort of man you are. I know it all too well. She’ll live under my care just as well as under yours.”

Lancelot advanced upon him.

“I know I am bound for hell for what I have done to the woman I love,” Lancelot said. “But I’ll see you there with me.”

“There is no hell for lovers!” said Tristram helpfully. “Only the hell on earth when they are parted, and the hell enemies like Mordred create when they threaten the beloved!”

Mordred turned from Lancelot to Tristram and cocked his head.

“Tell me, Tristram,” he said, “do you think Isolde is safe in Cornwall? When I’ve killed you and Lancelot and Arthur, what is to prevent me from storming those shores? Old King Mark? I’ll have her tied to her bed posts before the old man can even reach his sword, if he doesn’t simply run and leave her to her fate. Do you think she’ll scream at the sight of my face when I kiss her?”

It was the most transparent bluff Mordred could have possibly made- his army was barely holding together in its own country, much less after invading another- and of course Tristram fell for it. Lancelot didn’t have time to grab him before he’d lunged at Mordred, who tripped him easily and then brought his sword down through Tristram’s back.

At least it was a clean blow. He didn’t take his time to die as Bedivere had.

“Fool,” said Mordred. “As if I’d ever touch that dismal harpy, even bound and gagged.”

Mordred only just had time to replace his helmet when Lancelot rushed at him, sword drawn. It would have been best to take him out quickly, as he had done with Tristram, but in all his years of study, he’d never found a vulnerability in Lancelot’s fighting style. Scanning his enemy’s eyes for any sign of weakness, Mordred felt as if he were facing a pagan war god rather than a man.

He tried every kind of strike he could think of- an overhead slash, a quick upward strike to the torso- but no matter what Mordred did, Lancelot effortlessly parried it. With one particularly vicious riposte, Lancelot’s sword tip got stuck in Mordred’s visor- as the prince dashed backwards, he knew that the visor had been all that had kept him from dying in that moment.

Perhaps if he were provoked, as Tristram had been…

“Will she weep at my kiss as she did at yours?” Mordred called out to his enemy, but Lancelot was already as furious as he could possibly be. Mordred had proven himself an incompetent wizard, but even he knew an enchanted sword when he saw one- whatever magic was on Lancelot’s sword was ultimately stronger than his own armor. It would not hold out forever.

He attempted a leg sweep, but Lancelot just barely dodged it, and as he did so, Mordred felt a chill presence settle upon him. Maybe the forest really was haunted after all.

(“Look out!” Galahad had shouted at his father when Mordred swept his leg only moments before.)

Finally, and most infuriatingly of all, Lancelot stood back and put away his sword.

“I don’t need this to kill you,” he said. “If you surrender now, I’ll deliver you to Arthur, and commit one less crime against the Pendragon line. Perhaps because you are his son he’ll only throw you in the dungeons or into exile- if you continue to fight me, I promise you will meet your death.”

Mordred lunged at his opponent and tried to strike him while his sword was still sheathed, but Lancelot moved like flowing water. In one liquid motion, he drew his sword and parried away Mordred’s strike, knocking the blade out of Mordred’s hand. That wasn’t all he knocked out of place; Mordred could feel his shoulder dislocating from the force, and he fell over screaming in pain.

“Death to all who threaten Guinevere,” said Lancelot, but before Mordred could feel the killing blow, he heard the sound of another approaching. And even in his bloody state, Mordred could recognize the Pendragon shield.

***

Lancelot turned to face his former liege lord, putting his boot on Mordred’s face until the struggling grew less frantic and finally ceased. He’d deformed Mordred’s visor and almost certainly broken his nose by now, judging from the moans and whimpers coming from beneath him. Despite his brutal defeat, Mordred the usurper had many advantages as a sword fighter. Pain tolerance was not one of them.

Lancelot raised the sword given to him by his godmother Vivian, Aroundight, perhaps the only blade in the world that could withstand a direct blow from Excalibur.

“I have no wish to fight my king,” said Lancelot. “Mordred must die, and I will give my life to see it done. But I will not fight you.”

Arthur’s eyes were deep wells of hatred.

“You’ll not fight me? You’ll rape my wife, but you’ll not fight me?”

Excalibur came crashing down half an inch from where Lancelot had been standing. Aroundight parried the next blow, but true to his word, all of Lancelot’s moves were defensive.

“I could have forgiven anything,” growled Arthur, “but not this.” On the battlefield facing off the man who had once been his dearest friend, his sworn brother, he was no longer Arthur the Just or Arthur the Kind- he was the Red Dragon, the Ravager of Rome, son of Uther the Conqueror, and his rage was terrifying. He was the man who had slaughtered the Saxons and driven them from his shore, the man who had killed a giant in single combat, a legendary hero to his allies and a fabled nightmare to his enemies. Lancelot parried his attacks, but their strength nearly shattered his sword. Even without magic, the sheer force of Arthur’s blows could break him if he was not careful.

“I will not harm you!” Lancelot cried. “But I will not flee! Try and kill me if you can, I know it is justice, but while I breathe, I cannot run until I know your bastard is dead and have seen the woman I love once more.”

Arthur uttered a scream of rage that would have sounded more appropriate coming from one of the Saxon berserkers he had once faced down. Excalibur clashed against Aroundight, two blades blessed by the Ladies of the Lake. Their presence at this fight would have been helpful, either to stop it altogether or to lend aid to Vivian’s godson. He would have spared Arthur if he’d had him at the point of death, and Arthur would not have granted him mercy in return.

Arthur swung down another strike, chipping away at Aroundight, and the impact shook all the way through Lancelot’s arm and into the rest of his body. He was thrown off balance for only a moment, but a moment was enough. Before he could blink, he felt a sensation of sharp, piercing fire as Arthur thrust Excalibur into his chest.

_ I will see her again _ , Lancelot though.  _ I must see her again. _

Any other man would have died with a wound like that, but Lancelot was not an ordinary man.  _ Not yet _ , screamed every part of his body.  _ I can’t die yet _ . _ I must be sure that Mordred is dead, I must be sure that she is safe, I must tell her that I am sorry I hurt her, that I ever laid a hand upon her… _

There was no forgiveness in Arthur’s eyes as he raised Excalibur for the killing blow. Focused on each other in that moment, neither he nor Lancelot noticed that Mordred’s prone body could still move at all, far less seen him remove a dagger from his boot. Arthur stumbled and fell when it slid into his neck through a chink in his armor.

“If I die,” snarled Mordred, “I die a king!”

Through his pain, Mordred somehow managed to draw his sword, while Lancelot still clutched at his own wound.

“Our strengths are reversed, it seems” Mordred said through gritted teeth. “I’ll tell Guinevere of your death when I see her. That’ll be sure to win her favor.”

With his remaining strength, Lancelot leaned upwards and knocked Mordred back to the ground, forcing him to land on his dislocated shoulder. Lancelot spoke out over Mordred’s screaming.

“I, Lancelot du Lac, officially execute you, Mordred the usurper. May god have mercy on both our souls.”

And with that, he stepped over and broke Mordred’s neck.

And there, when he turned his head, was Guinevere watching him, accompanied by Morgan and Lynette. ( _ Something is very wrong _ , Morgan had said to Guinevere within her castle walls.  _ Blood calls to blood, and my brother’s blood has been spilled. We must reach him- we may not have very much longer. _ )

To Lancelot’s eyes, the other women faded into the forest next to Guinevere. Guinevere, his destroyer. Guinevere, his goddess. Guinevere, with her hair like the sunrise, with her lips as red as apples, with her heart as pure as snow.

Guinevere, whom he had wronged.

Staggering over, unsure of how much time he had left, Lancelot once again knelt before his queen.

“I have harmed you,” he said through rasping breaths. “My lady may offer mercy or punishment, as it pleases her. I would to god that I had never been born if it meant I could not have hurt you.”

And on bended knee, he placed his sword at her feet.

It was not vengeance that Guinevere felt, not rage, not even duty- it was only sheer blind panic at the sight of Lancelot’s arms extended towards her that caused her to seize the sword from the ground and plunge it into him.

***

“The poison on that blade is magic. I should know. I was the one who gave it to Mordred.”

Morgan did her best not to look as if she was crying.

“I can keep Arthur alive, but he’ll be in no fit state to move, much less rule. Whether I’ll even be able to wake him to consciousness, I have no idea. He’ll have to take the time to heal before he can so much as walk.”

“But for how long?” asked Guinevere.

“I don’t know. Years, decades, until the end of time. I’ll try my best, but I can offer no guarantees.”

Guinevere fought back a sob over her husband’s body.

“Take me with you,” she said. “To wherever you’re taking him.”

Morgan nodded.

“Lynette, clear space on the barge.”

Guinevere was too preoccupied with crying to even notice the change of scenery from the forest to the sea side.

“I’m your apprentice, not your lady’s maid,” said Lynette, but she did as she was told anyway, pushing pillows into place on a golden barge that floated beside the shore. She and Morgan lifted Arthur’s body as gently as possible onto the middle, and Guinevere stepped on beside him.

When she looked down at his sword, it was nothing but a dull bit of fancy metal.

“Excalibur...it’s gone dim.”

“And so it will stay, until its master awakens. Get rid of it so that no fools kill themselves fighting for a worthless object. It’ll find a way back when Arthur needs it.”

Guinevere nodded and took the sword. There was no splash of water when she threw Excalibur over the side of the barge. It might have been Guinevere’s imagination, but it looked as if a hand had reached out from beneath the ripples and grabbed it.


End file.
